Warren Murphy - The Ultimate Death

"My friend doesn't speak for me," Remo said. He rounded the table.

"A shame," Don Pietro said, shaking his head. "He sounds to me a very reasonable man." He still had not looked up at Remo.

"You and your dead-end kids have been behind the duck poisonings upstate at Poulette Farms, right?" Remo demanded.

"Remo!" Chiun called, sternly. "Have a care."

"Ducks?" a smile spread across the old man's features.

Don Pietro Scubisci looked up. Under the soft spread of light cast by the banker's lamp, his watery yellow eyes seemed to be swimming in a sea of mucus. But there was something else about those eyes.

Remo had seen that look before. He was wondering just where, when the hand slashed out of the greasy bag. It slit the paper in a perfect vertical line and went for Remo's throat like a switchblade snapping out.

The highly polished nail caught a glimmer of light from the banker's lamp. It was guillotine shaped. Remo saw that much. And it came back to him.

Remo William's body went on automatic. He dodged the don's hand in a quick sidestep, forcing it downward with a stabbing forefinger so that it struck the top of the table.

Brittle bones snapped under the force of the blow, but it made little difference to Don Pietro Scubisci. Remo's other hand shot out like a pile driver, crushing the old don's face to a pinkish pulp. All residual brain activity ceased, as if disconnected from its power source.

The old man collapsed to the floor, the side of his face mashing against his bag. It disgorged slimy peppers across the tabletop, like scurrying green mice.

Remo wheeled on Chiun, whose hands retreated into kimono sleeves.

"Now you know. . . ." Chiun intoned, his eyes bleak.

"Mondello too?" Remo guessed. "Am I right?"

Chiun averted his eyes.

"Dammit, Chiun, why didn't you tell me?"

"I was awaiting the appropriate time," Chiun responded.

"When would that have been?" Remo shouted. "When one of them had carved me up and used me to trim a tree?"

At that, the Master of Sinanju's stern face became angry. Wordlessly, he crossed to where the body of Don Pietro Scubisci lay on the floor and knelt beside it. With one of his own sharpened fingernails he opened a gash in the dead man's throat. Amid the feeble gurgle of blood, a tiny puff of orange rose from the orifice to be swallowed by the banker's lamp.

Remo watched the vanishing smoke in wonder. "What was that?" he asked.

"The only way known to release a spirit from its walking death. By liberating the bad air that makes them so." Chiun rose to his feet. "Learned at great cost," he added quietly.

Remo stared down in disbelief at the corpse on the floor. The Master of Sinanju turned to face his pupil.

"Is there anything you would like to say to me?" Chiun inquired.

"Yeah," Remo muttered, shaking his head. "I wish I'd bought fish."

"Idiot!" Chiun hissed, flouncing about and floating off. "Round-eyed idiot! Dense as all your kind!"

"Hey, it was just a freaking joke!" Remo said, trailing after.

The body of Don Pietro Scubisci stared dully after them. It gave a final gurgle, from its throat rather than its mouth, and its limbs began to loosen and stretch in death.

Chapter 14

"Chiun, wait up!"

Remo caught sight of the Master of Sinanju a few buildings down from the Neighborhood Improvement Association. There were no sounds of approaching police cruisers, which should have been dispatched to investigate the gunfire. As for the neighbors, they seemed strangely disinterested. As if they had their own notions as to what constitutes neighborhood improvement.

There were signs all around that Little Italy would be only a hazy memory in a few short years. If Chinatown was allowed to grow unchecked, it would continue to devour the Italian section of Manhattan like a hungry beast, building by building.

Mott Street was a strange collection of commingling ethnic smells. The odor of steamed milk and tomato sauce vied with pungent soy sauce for supremacy.

"Little Father. Time out. Okay?"

The Master of Sinanju froze on the sidewalk in front of a small food store. Inside the large glass display window, heavy tubes of prosciutto spun lazy spirals beside cured pork strips. A Chinese shopkeeper was whisking the sidewalk with an old-fashioned straw broom. His eyes squinted in haughty disdain at the sight of the unfamiliar Korean, and he began to sweep the sidewalk with increased vigor.

"Why didn't you tell me who was behind this?" Remo demanded angrily, storming up behind Chiun. "We could have stopped this before it got this far."

"Are you blind?" Chiun shouted, wheeling. "The gyonshi are a threat to us now only because of your ineptitude."

"Gyonshi ?"

"It is the name the blood-drinkers use for their own kind."

"Oh, so these Chinese vampires are all my fault, are they?" Remo demanded. "What, did I forget to close the tomb after me?"

"I would not put such perversity beyond the realm of the possible," Chiun said. "Especially from someone of such obviously deficient parentage. But it is clear to me that had your stroke been pure fifteen years ago, we would not be facing this menace today. You have always had a problem keeping your elbow straight."

"Ah-hah!" Remo shouted. "Now I know where the bent elbow came from!"

"Yes. It came from you."

"I tell you, my elbow was straight!" Remo demonstrated a rapid stroke in the air before him. "Zip, zip. In and out. I shaved enough of his brain to keep the Leader in a coma forever."

Chiun's eyes narrowed. "Demonstrate again," he commanded.

Remo thrust his hand out before him at the same imaginary target. He stepped back, his face pleased. "There!" he said triumphantly.

"And this is identical to the technique you used on the Leader?" Chiun prompted. "A perfect recreation," Remo said, folding his arms across his chest. "I haven't changed that lunge in fifteen years."

"Thank the gods we did not rely on that particular stroke against all of Emperor Smith's enemies," Chiun said curtly, "or there would be a veritable army of dispatched enemies pounding down our door."

Remo dropped his arms to his sides. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"The forward thrust," Chiun commanded. "Execute it."

Dutifully, Remo shot his arm out, forefinger extended stiffly.

"Hold!" Chiun ordered. Remo froze in position. "Now, return." Remo's hand snapped back to his side. "You bend on the return," Chiun said, his voice sour and flat. He seemed more disappointed than angry.

Taken aback, Remo snapped, "My arm is straight on the initial line. That's the power thrust. The return is only mopup. There's no need to finesse it." The Master of Sinanju narrowed his eyes in disapproval. "It's all right to bend your elbow on the return," Remo insisted. He paused. Chiun stared stonily. "Isn't it?" he asked, deflated.

"You were supposed to immobilize the Leader to prevent him from taking his own life, for it is written that only in death is a vampire truly alive. Your sloppiness only wounded him. The brain has healed itself."

"You can't fob all this off on me!" Remo said hotly.

"Was it I who used the faulty blow on the Leader, back in that dry city of ten-quart hats?" Chiun said aridly. "Was it I who placed him in that hospital of greedy quacks, and entrusted his caretaking to the insane Emperor Smith? Yes, Remo, I am fobbing. But it is I, Chiun the Fobber, who should be blamed for the fact that Sinanju will end with us. And I mean this, Remo. I am most sincere. It is my fault, for it was I who entrusted such an important task to lazy white help." Chiun now began to pad remorsefully down the street. "I should have performed the duty myself, but how can the young learn if they are not given opportunity? You were too callow. I should have known this."